In Which Don Quixote Lives a Delusion as if it Were Real Life

I recommended you head to los Angeles in your new found freedom from real estate. I meant that. And not only because the film industry is situated there. Sure, you could get famous there with a keen look in your eye and a fresh face. Rosy cheeks and some savvy on the casting couch could get you far.

I'm sure a kid like you with big problems in his head could work them out there. Probably do a lot of cocaine and see an expensive shrink. I think it could work for a young gentleman like you. Remember to pack that fresh face.

And your sister, if you can dig her up, she could make friends, too. Honest men out there are always on the lookout for a young girl to perform honest services for them.

If not Los Angeles, Bangkok.

Also, I notice that you have not written since I wrote yesterday. I'm aching for your letters, they are a sort of anchor in the murky sea of life on which this body of mine floats like an abandoned skiff.

And now I think there is blood in the water.

Sancho howls leaning off the roof with one hand on the chimney. I hear it whistle down the chimney and haunt my thoughts. I wish he'd shut up, but then I might not know he was here. I've been blind for days. I can't remember if I lost my eyes somewhere, or forgot to put them in when I woke up, or simply stabbed them out with forks because I couldn't stand all the stupid sensory information yelling at me all the time.

Maybe I've never had eyes. That's what the evidence seems to support.

Don Quixote de la Mancha